Reckoners
by Finickey
Summary: Or how to stop your pregnancy hormones with Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff


A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! This was a prompt I got from an anon on tumblr (natashass tumblr) Yes, I know I owe you an update for the HS AU I've been writing, also the "It's not the same) but I'm still so busy and I'm really sorry for the poor anon because the ask is, like, from two months ago. Also, I don't know how to write pregnancy!fics. Be ready for awkward pregnancy sex, enjoy porn without plot, and I'd love to hear from you!

Title is from the song by Radiohead.

Give me feedback, please :) (most especially now that I'm really sleepy and I didn't see any typos)

* * *

"I fucking hate you, Clint!" she sobs, "stop breathing my air!" Clint wakes up from his deep sleep, but he was always a light sleeper. He removes himself from his comfortable positions with his arm draped across Natasha. He grumbles, sits up, and opens the light and rubs his eyes at the incandescence.

"Shit, Tash. What's up?"

He's gotten used to it, really. He's gotten used to Natasha waking him up in the crack of dawn, and making him do impossible activities like open a restaurant at 3 am or demand the nearest KFC to open and deliver two buckets of chicken drumsticks and wings. Six months of this, oh, dear Lord.

But somehow, he doesn't seem to care.

He finds it really, really, really hot.

Of course, he won't tell her. Her swollen stomach wouldn't get in the way with her roundhouse kick if he told her.

And, fuck, he remembered one time, a month ago, she stood in front of him and asked if she was still beautiful and he was nothing if he said lies to her, so he said she was, he said she was beautiful in a shirt and jeans, in heavy kevlar, in a femme fatale dress, in an adorable yellow sundress. After he said this, she leaned in, an inch from his face, stared at his lips. She looks at his lips, and-

Starts bawling her eyes out and pushes him away, screaming that he just called her ugly and locked herself in their room.

Clint was torn between laughing his ass off and being completely offended.

So, that night, when she didn't open the door to their room, he slept on the couch with a towel as his blanket, and the throwpillow as his, well, pillow.

But, waking up to a warm body snuggling up his chest at two in the morning, a flash of red in the pale moonlight as he wrapped his arms around the figure and caressed her growing belly, he figured that he could get used to this.

"I'm sad." she pouts, but hysterical laughter comes right after, and the tears streaming down her face is contradicting her actions.

Clint will never understand women.

"Sweetie, it's alright," he mumbles and moves closer, taking her head in his arms and bringing her down with him on the bed. "I'm here, you're alright, I'm right here."

"Don't fucking call me, 'sweetie.'" she murmured and fisted her hand into his shirt. If he was any other man, that would have scared him. But he's not any other man. He's Clint Barton. And Natasha Romanoff loves him.

She wanted her hormomes to stop because she knows she's hurting him with all the shit she makes him do at the crack of dawn and all the hurtful things she says.

The misery she's been in was absolutely horrible. But it is not misery at all.

The light kick she feels makes her tear up. Not because of pain, but because she's so fucking happy that she's here and she's alive after a lifetime of red on her hands and her ledger, and she's found someone who'll be there for her. Someone who knows about how she makes her tea, how she makes her coffee, and how much she loves orange juice, and how much she loves the rain. Someone who knows who her favorite gun is (he also knows she names her guns; Ada, the Colt45, and Elizabeth, the .22) how she sleeps when she slightly snores because her allergies act up at night and all that nitty-gritty shit he knows about her.

Shit, she's going to be a mom, and he's going to be a dad. The Red Room missed out a lot of parts in fucking up her life, her being fertile and being able to love and her being able to make her own decisions. She's just so scared about this baby thing, because there were a lot of uncertainties, and Natasha loathed uncertainties since she depended her life on facts and orders and concrete things. It was easier that way, but, God, she doesn't care. She knows Clint will be an amazing dad, and that he'll love the child more than anything else in the world, but he's scared too. He's scared that he doesn't know how to take care of his own child because of what happened in his fucked up childhood. She's scared because, even if they leave SHIELD, the Avengers will still be one of their responsibilities, and that can lead to worse things, like leaving their child an orphan.

She also knows they'll never make the mistakes of their parents, and be the people their parents never were.

A tear slips her eye and it spills on his shirt and, God, why is she so emotional.

Hormones, right.

"Sorry, Clint."

"For what?"

"Being like this."

He tightened his grip on her and tucks another hand under his head. "Nat, it's not something to be sorry for. It's what every parent goes through, I guess." they both chuckle at the thought of domesticity.

"Yeah, I guess so." Natasha hooks her leg around his, and puts her hands under his shirt, around his body. And a bolt of arousal hits him. T'was an accident, really. He shifts his hips to the other side, but she pulls him back to face her.

"I don't suppose it's bad to fuck when you're pregnant, is it?" she grins wolfishly.

His dick hurts as it strains in his boxers, from her sudden (and sexy, not to mention) change in demeanor.

He reckons for a proper answer for that, but none come into mind because, God, she's putting her hands inside his boxers and, shit, this will end fast.

He hooks his hands around her, and it takes a little more effort to do it as gentle and careful as possible. He takes off her oversized shirt, and he sees her large breasts, preparing itself for the baby's advantage. He's gentle and sweet and his light touch nearly undid her.

He makes her sit up in a 100 degree angle, so she could breath a little better at their position.

He slides inside with great difficulty, and they both groan at the feeling of the other's hot skin, she was so wet that it was dripping on the bed, and for some caveman-like reason, he never, ever, ever wanted to wash their dark blue sheets now that it was stained with her and her scent (not like he hasn't had his sheets stained by her before, they've been married for two years and lovers for longer than that, mind you)

Oh, God, she feels so good, and he'll never get used to the feeling of her stretching around him. Her nails raked up his shoulders and it stung like a bitch, but it was a good kind of sting. The kind of sting that made him impossibly harder.

He pumped out and then in and her breathy moans were the only things that kept him going. Her moans were getting louder and her breaths were getting clipped every time he stroked her, and he could feel his orgasm in the pit of his stomach, and he can feel hers too, from the way she grabbed at his hair and ground her hips on him.

"Shit, Natasha," he whispers and his stubble tickles her breasts and she giggles. "I want to make you come, so, so bad,"

She was practically mewling in his ear and that was driving him nuts.

"Oh, Clint-" and Clint was hitting that spot, that sweet, sweet spot; the spot that made her jerk and sent shocks in her body, and she was shouting encouragements in his ear, a twist of Russian and English, calling out to supernatural beings, "Боже мой, вы, Так хороший, Clint, please, Боже мой," and she comes so hard that he can feel it in his toes.

He follows her over the edge and collapses on her side, not being able to collapse on her because of the baby.

She snuggles in his side, settles her hand on his chest and rubs her face on his shoulder, and they were sticky but they didn't care.

"You okay now?" he chuckled.

"Better." she smiled and put her hand on his jaw and made him face her, pulling his face down to kiss him.

Their lips locked and they both know this won't lead to anything, and just enjoyed their breaths mingled together, and their smiles on their lips as they kiss soundly, short and satisfied kisses.

Kisses that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

And they reckon that this is all worth it.

* * *

Natasha was saying, "My God, you're so good, Clint, please, my God,"

What'cha think?

Have a blessed Christmas! :)


End file.
